


Enlightenment

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Cannibalism Puns, Consent, F/M, Smut, because he is a cannibal not an asshole, fem reader - Freeform, its too easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: An evening alone with Hannibal leads to the topic of instinct.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 139





	Enlightenment

Maintaining such agonizingly flawless posture at this moment feels paramount - for what, you’re not quite certain of - and the small of your back screams in protest. A creeping and subconscious urge to impress Doctor Lecter is likely an effect he had on most, _that_ you’re certain of, and you are clearly not exempt from the unspoken scrutiny.

The fire roars before you, likely warming the brown leather of the chair you perched in beside Hannibal, the bare skin of your back begging you to slump against it. You take a demure sip from your wine glass to distract yourself.

Hannibal crosses one leg over the other, observing you with thinly-veiled curiosity as his head cocks to one side, perfectly tidied hair staying firmly in place. Perhaps he isn’t scrutinizing you - certainly not with cruelty - but he is, most definitely, observing.

“The objective I hoped for the two of us was to achieve,” he pauses, an almost impalpable smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “pleasurable leisure time. I hope dinner is sitting well with you; you look tense, if it isn’t rude of me to say.”

“Oh,” you chuckle nervously, leaning back into the chair as your entire person begins to relax. “Only trying to remember my manners. My mother always told me I had an atrocious posture. Thank you very much for dinner; I’m wildly impressed.” Swirling the glass in your hand, the blood-red liquid appearing to match your black dress as it’s silhouetted, you smirk. “Still trying to figure out what you _can’t_ do.”

Hannibal’s smile, while still warm, doesn’t reach his eyes; he remains in poised control. A fox would not reveal the sharpened pearls behind his jowls this early in the hunt, not while their prey had a chance to flee. Hannibal has an intimidating and incredibly alluring way of making you feel like fowl, not hidden well enough by the heather. Unlike the bird, unaware and unassuming, you want to be caught between his teeth.

“Your mother, like so many of them tend to be, may be well-meaning, if not over-critical; she would be pleased to know that her daughter sits quite civilly. But we are meant to unwind from the day,” he announces with authority, drawing in a collected breath as he unfastens his waistcoat. Your eyes are drawn to his hands - surgeons hands, pianist hands; precise, assiduous, perhaps even attentive - as you watch the onyx button cloaked in soft gold gleam in the firelight as it falls to the side of his abdomen, a creamy white buttoned shirt still pressed beneath the tweed. “Bearing witness to your absolute contentment is all the gratitude I need, and I believe we’ve both earned the privilege.”

Your cheeks heat with a wild blaze; he may not be able to _see_ it, but surely the doctor has detected the almost improper way you can’t help but simper against his words as they flow past his lips like honey from a hive, his nearly indiscernible accent coiling around each syllable.

Curling your fingers into your palm, you turn your hand over to reveal the fleshy edge below your knuckle; a crepuscular blue is still imprinted into the seams of your skin.

“Considering your level of skill, Doctor, I’m flattered that you consider what I do ‘work.’ If you could pass _that_ message along to my mother as well, while you’re at it,” you groan, trailing off.

“While manners are a habit I deeply encourage, I cannot excuse her when it comes to such an impertinent outlook on what you do,” he says disapprovingly, almost flashing a hint of paternity with the stern look he offers. “Art is intrinsic to human nature, an entirely visceral impulse to indulge in. Those of us fortunate enough to possess the ability to create it are obligated to do so, so that it might benefit others. Most other instincts are far too intimate to share with no more than a sacred few.”

“Do you believe it’s instinct that motivates us, Hannibal?” you ask, exhilarated to let the tables turn, for you to sit in the psychiatrist's seat if only for a moment.

“Almost entirely,” he replies, not mulling over his response for a second.

“And what instinct drives you to the culinary arts? To provide me or anyone else with not simply nourishment but with such a presentation? Not that I’m complaining,” you add, eliciting a small laugh from him, “but for the sake of driving your point home?”

Dipping his head modestly, he seems to make a display of considering his answer. You’re confident he doesn’t truly need the time. He holds his wine glass by the stem, making it appear all the more delicate.

“We are all guilty of craving acceptance; I am no exception to that,” he states, and you perceive a desire for the veil of niceties, of his decorous nature, to be pulled away just slightly; his wall of arcane elegance becomes slightly more opaque.

At one point in the evening, there had been a larger audience for Hannibal to entertain; the masses had trickled out some time ago, but Hannibal held your attention under the guise of showing you paintings in his sitting room. You’re suddenly very aware of being the only remaining guest. “Ah,” you breathe, nodding in understanding. “Well, you offer us little reason not to, doctor.”

His smile appears satisfied now; it’s more broad and candid, his severe cheekbones slashed against his skin. Half of his face is shadowed by the fire, a soft cello prelude accompanies the crackles and hisses from the quartered birch resting in its wrought-iron nest, and your head is swimming. Submerged and floating in the cool and rushing waters of another instinct.

Hannibal carefully sets his glass down on the small, intricately carved side table. Italian, you think, nineteenth century. As if he can hear your thoughts, though he’s likely only following your eyes, he speaks. “And what instincts drive you, pittrice?”

You hum, cradling your remaining wine to your chest. While Hannibal has deposited his reward for a long day, you cling to your offering more tightly. “Maybe it’s a desire to provide an increasingly vicious world with even a shred of beauty,” you say distantly, looking somewhere beyond his shoulder.

“Beauty is subjective,” he counters. Devil’s advocate. The embodiment of Lucifer; stunning, enlightening, too perfect to the point of sinisterism. You think of the torch-bearer as the orange glow illuminates Hannibal’s hazel eyes; they’re nearly red as you see them now. He isn’t smiling, but his lips look almost vulpine, a wave of calm saccharine crashing over his sharp features. “What some classify as beauty may be gruesome to others. Some of our instincts are offensive, violent. And who is to be the all-knowing judge of either?”

He is Venus in the flesh, dawn-bringer. You suddenly have an almost primal need to see him in the bluish hue of early morning, the genesis of a new day. It seems like it would be a vulnerable light to shine on Hannibal; a creature of the night.

“Chaos is order, order is chaos,” you quip, tilting your head from side to side like the goddess Dike, demonstrating the equilibrium in the sentiment. “If you can’t have beauty without violence, then that makes them equals.”

“Precisely,” Hannibal whispers, not bothering to disguise the reverence in his tone.

Your eyes scan over his bearing; he’s sat up in his armchair, hands resting on his knees. Your pulse begins to quicken as he extends his arm and his tricky fingers - surgeon’s fingers, pianist fingers, familiar with bodies and lightness and pressure - unfasten the small, pearly buttons on his dress shirt. He does this with each wrist before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and then brings his hands to the base of his neck as he tugs at his gun-barrel grey tie.

“It is getting late; surely you’re exhausted,” he says with a comfortable sigh, rocking back into his chair to make room for his long limbs as he unravels the knot at his throat with ease, “and you have had two glasses of wine, which would have a more prominent effect, hadn’t you been served the first with a meal. Therefore, while I would not approve of driving in such icy conditions, I find you fully capable of making prudent choices.” He discards the tie, limp like a strangled serpent, draping it over the back of his chair. “Would you like me to call you a town car? My driver is hired to wait for my guests for the evening. Or,” he pauses again, and it isn’t to ponder his next proposal, it isn’t fixed with nerves or apprehension. Every word uttered from Hannibal Lecter is either predetermined or born from a sudden epiphany so confident, he does not falter. No, this is an orchestrated concerto, his words shortly to be accompanied by other parts of him, you suspect. “You are welcome to stay.”

You were expecting the invitation, but hearing him speak it, voice rich and deep, makes your blood rush through your veins. He leans forward, the top two buttons of his shirt exposing his collarbones, and a single greying strand of hair falls from place, like the blade of an axe swinging. His face is inscrutable, not revealing a flicker of emotion, like the trained and disciplined psychoanalyst he is. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” you begin, hand idly placing your wineglass down on Hannibal’s table’s twin, the sheen of your cocktail dress appearing silver as it catches in the light.

“Au contraire,” he replies virtuously, his feigning flirtation with humility almost comical. “I would prefer the company tonight, if you’re willing to oblige me. I don’t believe I’ve finished entertaining you this evening.”

“What more does the night have in store for us, Hannibal?” you purr, frozen on the spot and keenly aware of the tightness of your dress, the shape of your figure beneath it as Hannibal seems intent on keeping his gaze at eye level.

“I have a few bright ideas, young lady,” he says, clearly incapable or at least unwilling to entirely shed the droit plume that hangs over him granted by his prestige; sovereignty seemed to cling to him. “Yet where the night leads us next is completely up to you; you are the guest.”

You maintained your posture for as long as you could until you were given permission to sink into the mold of his world, and he is upholding his chivalries, patiently waiting for his own sanction. If he’s banking on an invitation, you recognize that it’s you who has to make the next move.

Words escape you, so you lean on body language. Parting your lips with your tongue, you break from his fixed stare to let your eyes roam over the shape of him; defined arms flexed beneath the crisp white of his shirt as his hands hang between his legs. You let your gaze settle beyond his knuckles, the gold of his belt buckle like the clasp on a treasure chest.

“I’m quite open to suggestions,” you whisper suggestively, pressing your lips together.

Hannibal rises from his chair only briefly before sinking to his knees, warm palms resting beside your thighs. The chair is shallow and short enough that you’re nose to nose in this position, and he slowly begins to dip his head towards yours.

“An open mind reaps the benefit of enlightenment.”

Wings arched back and closed behind him, the Fallen Angel himself parts the gates of his mouth, full and wide flesh filled with blood, and envelopes them over yours. Electricity shoots through your entire body as you instantly fall limp against him, slumping against his chest and catching yourself with a trembling palm flush against the smooth fabric that separated you from his skin. His kiss is as calculated and deft as the rest of him; as smooth and controlled as he wants it to be, tongue slow and determined, until it isn’t. He remains that way as you melt against him, moaning faintly into his mouth until his hands - the hands of a skilled and meticulous surgeon, the hands of a seasoned and trained pianist - skirt towards the hem of your dress. You suck in breath sharply at the contact; his hands are cold and it burns, but instead of shrinking from his touch, you part your legs wider, allowing your dress to ride up to the apex of your thighs.

Breath hitches in your throat as Hannibal’s lips trail down it, achingly slow; the more measured and unhurried he is, palms massaging above your knees as he edges between them, the more flustered and rushed you find yourself. A painters hands are often misconstrued as being as steady as surgeons, but it’s a lie; painters are allotted the chance to glide, to be led by whims and emotions, they are allowed certain freedoms a human life cannot depend upon. There isn’t a hint of precision in your touch as your shaky fingers brush over the buttons against Hannibal’s chest. With a placid shush, he breaks his lips away from your neck and gathers your more turbulent digits with his scrupulous ones, brushing his thumbs over your knuckles.

“Now, now, we mustn’t race to the finish line,” he soothes, placing a kiss against the column of your nose. “Instincts like this are meant to be savored. Are you having doubts, darling?”

“No, not at all, maybe just a little shy -“

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs, planting a kiss against your jaw and you obey. “Good girl. We have all night; tomorrow, if I am correct, expects nothing of us. Now, you’ll tell me to stop if you’d like, won’t you?”

His voice is hauntingly deep; it’s as if he’s reading from a script, capable of mapping out the planes of your mind and body, ordering you to relax without demanding it any further. Leaning into him, this time feeling more relaxed, you kissed him gently.

“Please,” you say, and it’s the only word he needs.

A more assertive Hannibal deepens the kiss, one hand returning to your leg to pry it further apart, the other threading through your hair to grip the base of your neck, tilting your head into his mouth. Even in such an elegant dress, the point of it is lost as your body contorts into a wanton mess, his single hand the subject of your loss of control. Four fingers digging into flesh, gliding and scraping as his thumb edges closer to the soaked cloth covering your center.

He seems reluctant to withdraw from the kiss, and a flash of amused regret washes over his face as he lowers his head between your legs. Arching your hips, your hands grip the leather armrest as his lips brush over your inner thigh.

“A taste, perhaps? Something to indulge in first,” he says, voice like a warning growl. In one swift motion, two of his thumbs hook beneath the waistband of your underwear and he drags them down your legs, pulling them from the catch of one heel and leaves them to dangle around the other before sinking to your core.

A surgeon’s hands and a serpent's tongue; diving between your folds, he drags it towards your clit, swiping gently against your bundle of nerves as your hands flutter to his head, gathering his hair in your fingers. Both of his hands lay flush against the back of your thighs as he presses against them, encouraging you to lean further back, granting him better control. He lets out a pleased chuckle as you whimper, a clear sign of pleasure washing over you. The sound comes from the cavern of his chest, whatever monsters residing there escaping in the form of lust as he sucks on your bud, tongue swirling. The harder your fingers dig into his scalp, the more confident he becomes; one hand releases its grip on your leg, and you feel two fingers prod at your entrance.

“If I may?”

He pauses to stop, honeyed eyes almost black with the fire behind him as he raises them from between your legs, mouth slick with your arousal.

Eyes fluttering open and shut, you can simply nod before he gathers the result of his touch around the tips of his index and middle fingers, artfully easing his way in centimeter by centimeter. He does so with the same impassive expression he normally wears, only a vague hint of appeasement sneaking over his features. He does not want to plunge, he does not want to elicit unpleasant shock or intrusion; he works his way inside of you with patience. When you moan, feeling him press against a particular spot that drags the sound from you, he smiles; it’s the widest one he’s given you yet.

“Just so,” he praises, the hoods of his eyes disappearing behind the thatch of hair between your legs as his tongue returns to your clit.

By now your chin lolls back, your head leaning against a shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut, overwhelmed by the sensation. Hannibal’s fingers curl inside of you, edging in and out like he’s beckoning your climax. It’s nothing but blissful pleasure until his other hand grips the back of your thigh even tighter, surely leaning marks in the wake of his delectation.

His skin is golden in the firelight, the blonde hairs on his arms nearly white as you barely open your eyes before promptly shutting them again. When your walls begin to tighten around his fingers, he hums; a low, seductive reverberance. It’s then that he’s reached his peak of expertise, and he knows exactly how to draw out the rondo from inside of you. Your body snaps as you almost sit upright, fingers still gripped in his hair as you cry out against your orgasm. The hand on your leg flies to your abdomen, firmly keeping you anchored as you ride the waves of your climax back down again; he lets you clench around him while pulling his mouth away from your throbbing clit, surely very aware of its sensitivity.

When you recover, his eyes are alive.

“Exquisite,” he muses.


End file.
